Willie Nelson - of whom no evil shall be spoken in my presence - once sang, "Still is still moving to me."   As for I an' I, moving is still ... still.

I have moved, and my emotional and physical functioning, and those of those around me, are all farblondget and yet, I am still here, and here, I am still.

I am like a hurricane; I always have been: whirling dysfunctional disorder and strife surrounding a hollow 'eye' of stillness - a core that is almost mineral in its inability to be touched.  Cool, high, and indifferent, I am lunar.

Or, alternately, I am so utterly disturbed by everything, all the time, that I am in a constant state of low-level shock.

Oddly, introspection yields no clues as to which of these competing self-conceptions is correct - if either is.

Perhaps there are two of me.